


The Three Times She Heard the Universe Wail

by thetidesisrising



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Doomsday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:43:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetidesisrising/pseuds/thetidesisrising
Summary: "On any other day, the Doctor would have been melancholic when she snapped him out of his trance. She would havebeen able to tolerate the hollow expression that would appear on his face, the vacant stare scanning for a glimpse ofthe past. On this day however, she could not bear to wake him from this opium-like dream; in a universe that hadbrought upon him so much agony and heartbreak, she refused to be the one to deprive him of his only anodyne."or, Martha provides much needed solace to the Doctor on the 6th month anniversary of the Battle of Canary Wharf.





	The Three Times She Heard the Universe Wail

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! I know that it’s been such a long time since my last fic, so in preparation for my return to writing, I decided to post this in an effort to test the waters; in the time of my absence my writing style has changed immensely, and I would love to gauge a reaction before editing some of my longer fic. I hope you enjoy, and please review! Xx

 He was singing when she walked into the console room, a slight smile gracing his archaic features. The dichotomy between the cadence of his voice and the TARDIS’ discordant hum perturbed her. The Doctor had always been manic; his eccentric demeanor was one of the qualities that initially attracted her. But this current madness, the nuance that only appeared on _those_ days, troubled her greatly. She exhaled, a ghostly shiver wracking her bones as she stepped into his line of sight.

 

“Martha!” he warbled, poking his head up from the repair shaft.

           

“Doctor,” she replied, pleading that her voice was chirpy enough to prevent an episode.

           

If he noticed anything wrong with her intonation, he refrained from commenting.

           

“Rose is coming tonight!” he exclaimed, a broad grin swallowing the grief-wrinkles that had begun to emerge at the corners of his mouth. “We’re going for chips! I love chips!”

           

Shuddering as he babbled on about the minutia of his conjured date, she stumbled backwards, clutching the back of the pilot’s chair as the significance of his revelation rocked her. She swallowed thickly, her throat swelling with the thickness of the situation.

           

On any other day, the Doctor would have been melancholic when she snapped him out of his trance. She would have been able to tolerate the hollow expression that would appear on his face, the vacant stare scanning for a glimpse of the past. On this day however, she could not bear to wake him from this opium-like dream; in a universe that had brought upon him so much agony and heartbreak, she refused to be the one to deprive him of his only anodyne. Today was the six-month anniversary of the day he lost Rose Tyler. The date had been looming over their interactions for days, and Martha wondered how they were going to spend it. The first three months of their companionship, he went to Canary Wharf. She refrained from accompanying him at first, but on the third visit, her curiosity won. She followed him past the pallid walls, her essence echoing throughout the bereft halls.

           

That was the second time she saw him cry.

           

The first time was at the funeral. He had spoken, along with a woman named Sarah Jane. Martha remembered the silent tears that trickled down his cheeks, how the woman named Sarah Jane hugged him, pouring her strength into his weary soul as he silently grieved upon her shoulder. The day had shaken Martha in a manner that she wished to forget, and she forced herself to return to the present, the evanescent image of pink and yellow roses lingering in her mind. 

           

She inhaled, drumming her fingertips on the seat of the pilot’s chair.

           

“Doctor-”

           

“What color dress do you think Rose will wear?” he asked, interrupting her plea.

           

At first Martha thought the question was directed at her, but the Doctor continued to ramble, utterly oblivious to her presence.

           

“Blue. She likes a sapphire blue,” he mused. “I’ll wear the blue tie then.”

           

His innocent felicity agonized her; Martha felt as though he were a little boy playing with his toys, and that her revelation would surely break him.

           

“I don’t think she’s going to wear the blue tonight,” Martha said softly.

           

He paused, glancing at her as if her assertion was the most ludicrous statement he had ever heard.

           

“What color then?” he urged, his lips pressing together in thinly veiled impatience. “Purple? Green? Red?”

           

Martha shook her head.

           

“Doctor, Rose isn’t coming. She’s gone. She’s been gone for six months.”

           

He started, his jaw clenching.

           

“You’re lying.”

           

Martha did not have the heart to respond.

           

Slowly, painfully, the Doctor she knew began to emerge from the depths of his mind, crawling to the forefront of his chimerical memory. His eyes glazed over, a hauntingly despondent look consuming his visage.

           

“If you’ll excuse me, Martha,” he said politely, his voice monotone.

           

She nodded curtly, her eyes following him as he departed the console room, searching for any indications of self-harm. When she was somewhat satisfied with her observations, she collapsed against the pilot’s chair, tucking her knees to her chin, rocking back and forth to simulate a lullaby.

         

   -

           

She heard his cries five minutes before midnight. Her heart raced as she ran through the halls, beckoning the TARDIS to move his room closer. For once the ship obliged her, however, once Martha reached the door, she paused in bewilderment. She could surely hear the Doctor’s cries from within the room, and yet, the light cream-colored door was foreign to her. She hesitated for another moment, fingers hovering over the intricate rose carved upon the door, before confidently placing her hand on the handle, and easing open the door. The room was a woman’s – as far as she could tell – but she did not have much time to discern it, as the thrashing man upon the king sized bed immediately enraptured her. She padded towards him, slowly reaching her arm out before deciding against it.

           

“Doctor,” she coaxed gently, her voice soothing. “Wake up.”

           

He continued to flail about the bed, his toned legs kicking the pastel sheets from the bed.

           

“No,” he murmured suddenly, causing Martha to jump. “Don’t touch her! Please, take me instead.”

           

“Doctor, wake up. I’m still here. I promise I’m not going to leave you,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.

           

“Rose!” he wailed.

               

His sudden outburst horrified her, and she jumped backwards in an effort to separate herself from his incontrollable limbs.  

 

“Doctor,” she called, her hands hovering over his arms as she debated shaking him.

 

“ _Rose_ ,” he moaned. “You killed her in cold blood. You actually killed her. My Rose.”

 

He stilled, his suddenly stagnant body and whimpering jarring.

 

“Doctor you have to wake up!” she yelled, shaking him awake.

 

“Rose!” he called, launching upward, his chest heaving.

 

His eyes darted around the room, attempting to fixate on his surroundings.

 

“Where’s Rose?” he growled.

 

She met his venomous gaze with a cautious one.

 

“Doctor, it’s you and me. She’s gone.”

 

Despondence immediately swept through him, and this time Martha could tell that he would not hold back his sobs. She enveloped him in a hug, her hands rubbing soothing circles into his back as he wailed into her shoulder.

 

“She’s coming for you, Doctor,” Martha whispered as her eyes scanned the blush-colored room, her fingers gently combing through his hair.

 

After a while, she let go of the broken man, gently pushing him down to rest on the bed.

 

“Sleep now, Doctor, and maybe Rose will be here when you wake.” 


End file.
